


Cold Feet

by ceresilupin



Category: Rent - Larson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas blizzard, two years after the end of RENT.  Mark has something he needs to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kuteki

 

 

_Collins left the loft, and New York, two weeks after Mark let it slip. It was no good pretending that the two events were unrelated -- even their fun friendly neighborhood anarchist couldn't pull that one off, and didn't try._

"It's not ruining things," Mark had protested, following him around the loft as he'd paced -- first from the kitchen, which was in its usual shambles, into the living room, and then the room they shared, next to Roger's -- "I'm not ruining things. I'm not."

"Not on **purpose,** " Collins had said.

"Not at **all,** " Mark had fired back.

Collins had kicked something or other out of his path, and then turned, his big hands settling on Mark's shoulders. They'd regarded one another in hurt silence.

Mark finally snapped. "What?"

"It's gonna hurt, Mark," Collins had said, and turned to stand at the window. Outside, the street had just begun to take on a wintry grayness, frosting the window and obliterating the sun. "We could lose you too, and it's all gonna hurt."

"I'm not going to. . . ." Mark had started, inaudibly, but Collins hadn't been listening.

"That's what things do, these days," he'd said, and had leaned hard on the window frame, like it was all that held him up. "It's gonna hurt."

~

"Roger," Mark sighed, "your feet are fucking freezing."

Their power was out again this Christmas, but for once it wasn't their fault. New York City was suffering under the decade's worst blizzard, and as workers scrambled to restore power in the Upper East Side, Alphabet City was left to freeze. He and Roger had ended up crammed in Roger's bed, piled with blankets in the desperate hope they'd help. Judging by Roger's feet, they weren't.

"Sor-ry," Roger huffed, laughing. He moved them away.

Mark was about to offer some other inane comment -- "Are you cold?" "How're you feeling?" "Do you think the roof is going to cave in and kill us both?" -- when two chunks of ice were applied directly to his legs. He yelped and kicked. "Roger!"

"Whoops!" Roger rolled onto his stomach and nearly fell of the bed. "Sorry, Mark!"

"Sorry! You did that on purpose!" Mark grabbed Roger's shoulder and yanked him from the precarious ledge. "I was almost asleep, jackass."

"You were not," Roger retorted, with friendly scorn. He rolled his eyes and sighed as Mark suddenly placed an authoritative hand on his forehead, sternly professional as any nurse.

"You're running a fever," he decided.

"I always do, at night," Roger said, in a passing imitation of breezy. He removed Mark's hand from his face and punched his pillow, squirming in an attempt to get comfortable and ignore Mark's eyes. "For a while now."

"You never said," Mark pointed out, voice gone muted.

"Didn't wanna worry you." Roger swallowed hard and settled on his back, not quite facing away, but not quite facing in, either. A tiny line etched itself between his eyebrows. "It's not a big deal."

 _Yes, it is._ Silently, Mark considered any number of responses. _It's a sign of AIDS_ would be pointless -- Roger had mentioned the change in diagnosis months ago, although not to Mimi. Not yet. _If you're uncomfortable, I want to help_ would be too sentimental and anyway, Roger already knew that.

So what he said was, "Maybe I could have helped," which was lame and, well. Lame.

Roger sighed and glanced over. "It's not a big deal," he repeated, raising his eyebrows in a knock it off expression. He and Mark stared at one another, facing off, until Mark gave way. As usual.

"Fine," he said, and then it was his turn to sigh. "But if you're running a fever, why the fuck are your feet so cold?"

Roger batted at him half-heartedly and Mark ducked, automatically catching his arm and shoving it away. They paused so Roger could yawn. "Is de widdle Woger sweepy?" Mark cooed, tickling his chin till he kicked. "Sweepy sweepy Woger --"

"Screw you," Roger said, laughing, and rolled away. "I'm going to sleep, _pookie._ "

Mark gave him a last gentle punch. "Just keep the zombie feet on your side of the bed, dude," he sniped, and Roger laughed in quiet agreement. The sound of their voices, bouncing reassuringly off the walls, grew faint.

And then it was silent again, like something eternal and cold.

~

_Joanne had been visibly distressed after Collins called her, and Maureen's crimson mouth had been stuck in an unhappy frown. As Joanne had started in on Mark, Maureen had busied herself by cleaning the counter._

"I don't want to hear it again," Mark had said crossly. "Collins already told me, all right?"

"Mark," Joanne had said. "I believe you, all right? You won't do it. I'm just . . . I'm worried about **you.** Not just -- this isn't good for you. To give it all away like that. . . ." She'd trailed into wordlessness, shaking her head and seeing something a million miles away.

Mark had just scowled at the tabletop until she retreated to her study. And then it was Maureen's turn.

She'd finally put down the Windex. For a moment, she and Mark had avoided one another's gazes, mutually discomfited, but eventually her small, pale hand had forced his chin up. She hadn't been the center of his universe for a long, long time, and the pain in her eyes hadn't hurt the way it would have, once. But she was still his friend -- always his friend-- and his sullen mask had dissolved at the sight of her tears.

"Markie," she'd said, and laughed, her dark eyes crinkling. "You'll be all right, won't you?"

"Uh," he'd said, and caught her hand, squeezing it in both of his. "Sure thing, pooks."

She'd laughed for real then, and he'd known -- though he never would have guessed -- that she was on side, that she always would be, no matter what the others thought or said.

~

Was Roger really trying to sleep? Dark as it was, the clock read eight'o'clock, and they'd been stuck inside all day long. He couldn't be tired. Mark sure as hell wasn't tired; he felt like he'd been mainlining pixie stix or something. Jesus, he was bored.

With a furtive bite of his lower lip, Mark freed his hand from the covers and inspected Roger's back. Where would a poke, scrape, or spider-walk be the most startling? The obvious answer was the back of his neck, pale and exposed between the dark line of his hair and the white cotton of his shirt. But Roger's ribs were ticklish, if Mark recalled correctly, and scalps were always sensitive. Hm.

Eventually he settled for a poke between Roger's shoulder blades. His best friend barely even jumped.

"Hey," he said, "you awake?"

"No," Roger said, but shifted around again. His eyes were open and smiling. "What's up?"

Mark stretched and linked his arms behind his head. He could feel Roger watching him warily and drew the moment out as long as possible, hoping to make him squirm. It didn't really work.

"Truth or dare," he finally asked, and Roger began to laugh.

~

_"So," Mark had said when Benny dropped onto a stool at the counter beside him. "Did Collins call you?"_

"Nnnnnn . . . no." Benny had eyed him suspiciously and stolen a drink of his tea. "Was he suppo -- Jesus, Mark, this tastes like **shit.** "

"I know," Mark had said glumly. "It's all they'll give me. They know I can't pay."

Benny had been almost miffed, like an offended cat, and he'd beckoned the waiter over with a list of imperious commands. A heartbeat later, as Mark had sat gaping, they were given two gargantuan cups of coffee and a freshly baked pie-sized dessert . . . thing.

"So what's Collins supposed to have called me about?" Benny had asked, sipping his too-hot coffee and wincing.

"Nothing," Mark had said quickly, stealing a few nibbles from Dessert Giant. "Nothing at all."

Benny had looked at him. Mark had fidgeted.

"Right-o," Benny had said, taking pity. His beeper had chimed, distracting him. "Whatever you say. Look, I gotta head out -- see you around, all right, man?"

He'd grabbed his coffee and stood to go -- Mark had realized, startled, that he hadn't even taken off his coat -- and had almost reached the door when Mark called him back. He'd used both hands to hold up the pie-sized dessert. "What about your thing?"

Benny laughed. "Not a fan of blueberries," he'd said, and waved dismissively. "You can keep it."

He'd disappeared into the snowy street, leaving Mark to request a doggie bag and pack away his sugary goodness. With the dessert secure under one arm, and his camera under the other, he'd followed Benny outside in time to see him pull away.

Mark had called him that night to thank him. Everyone knew Benny loved blueberries.

~

Mark burst into laughter.

"Seriously," Roger said, grinning like maniac. He grabbed Mark's shoulder and shook him gently. "Seriously, Mark. You never tried that one?"

"No," Mark said, choking a little. "I'm Jewish."

"So bratwursts aren't kosher in the Cohen family?"

"Are bratwursts kosher anywhere?" Mark wondered, laughing again. He resettled himself and gave Roger a friendly shove. "You know what they put in those things, right?"

"Pig guts," Roger answered promptly, delighted. "I think Collins is rubbing off on you."

"Better than you," Mark said.

Roger threw a leg over Mark's -- his feet were still like chunks of ice -- and gave a huge, fake moan. Mark shuddered and punched his pillow, wiggling away. "That's gross, Roge," he said. "I think the game is over. You ruined it."

Roger just laughed.

Mark shook his head, pulling the covers up to his nose. He was tired but unwilling to sleep, and overhead, the roof was still creaking. A particularly menacing crack made his eyes snap open.

"Mark," Roger said, wide-eyed as Mark laughed helplessly. "Before we die, there's something I should tell you."

"Oh, God, what," Mark groaned, hiding his face. Roger yanked futilely at the blankets. "No, I don't even want to know. Don't tell me."

"I cheated on you with my guitarist," Roger admitted.

"He's a _priest,_ " Mark protested. "He's _completely celibate._ Didn't he take an oath of silence last week?"

"Dunno," Roger said, and shrugged. "He hasn't said anything. Also, I'm having your baby."

Mark threw the covers away cheerfully. "Well, duh," he agreed. "I didn't think it was Joanne's. She was worried, you know."

"And," Roger said, in the tone of a true confession, "I ate all the pickles this morning and didn't tell you. We're out till the snow clears."

"You _bastard,_ " Mark said, and yelped as he was tackled. Roger gnawed playfully on his shoulder as he tried to keep them from falling out of bed.

~

_Mark didn't think that Collins would call Mimi, but it didn't really matter. She was never around these days, slick and successful as none of them, even Benny, had ever been. It wasn't that she didn't love Roger, or the rest of them, it was that she also loved what she did, and they all knew you had to follow that thing, that one thing, whatever it was._

And nothing lasted forever. They all knew that, too.

Mark still remembered the whirlwind tour she'd given him of her then-new apartment. It had been Christmas then, too, the Christmas after she'd almost died (or really had, if you asked Collins). It had been snowing, nothing like the current maelstrom, and she'd had a small Christmas tree in the living room. Colored lights had splashed off the ornaments and tinsel, glittering warmly on the plush carpet and white, white walls. Everything had smelled like fresh paint.

Mark had filmed the Christmas tree, and then the rosary that Mimi wore around her neck. "It's from my mom," she'd said, her accent thickening in a moment's sad nostalgia. "She's coming with my sisters in a few weeks."

"Good," he'd said, thinking that at least they'd have plenty of room. "I'm glad. Are we gonna meet them? Can we tell them bad things about you?" She'd just laughed.

Everything had been clean and new. The painting over her bed -- Roger had still been asleep in it -- had been distinctly modern. The linen closet had been full. The couch cushions had still been littered with bits of factory plastic. The kitchen had been downright shiny.

The bathroom had been devoid of prescription bottles.

~

"Mark," Roger said. Mark opened his eyes. "It's all right."

"Yeah," Mark agreed hollowly.

"You're such an optimist," Roger said, and gently knocked his fist under Mark's chin. "It's just -- there are some things you can't have, you know?"

Mark was feeling deeply teenaged, and he almost didn't care. "You guys have been trying to get a gig in this club for months," he said, voice sharp and angry. "You're good. And Harry said he'd ask around at the label, see what they thought -- it's a big deal, Roge." He sighed and turned onto his back. "Don't give up, all right?"

Roger rolled his eyes. "I'm not giving up," he snapped, but quietly, because it was rare for Roger to raise his voice these days. Another thing that had changed in him, that had shrunk, that had become less than it was. "Dammit, Mark, we're not going to stop performing or anything like that. But I'm not going to waste time chasing a contract I'm not going to get."

Mark said nothing.

"Labels are a business like any other," Roger continued, in a reasonable, resigned voice that left Mark aflood with frustrated affection. "They don't put their money is risky investments. Like me."

"That's --" Mark couldn't even find the words for how wrong that was. "That doesn't even make _sense!_ You're not an investment, you're a fucking person! A performer! An _artist!_ Besides, it's illegal to, to treat people differently just because they have AIDS -- I'm sure of it, I read it somewhere. . . ."

But as he thought about it, he couldn't remember where. And besides, Roger was shaking his head, slowly, and eventually his voice ran down and he stared beseechingly, wondering if this was really possible, if Roger was really giving up on making an album, on making it big.

"It's all right, Mark," Roger said again, as gently as he had before. "It's all right."

 _But it's not,_ Mark thought, _it's not,_ and there was nothing to say that wouldn't make it worse.

~

_Mark remembers the day Angel died at the weirdest times. Like on the subway, or after losing a job, or when he's warm and happy and almost, but not quite, inured to the sight of someone sleeping on a bench. What was his mother's saying?_

Out of the blue.

"That stuff, you got us," Mark had said, words fumbling, hands fumbling, and he'd pressed his cold, shaking fingers around Angel's hot, limp ones, "that first time -- we never paid you back. We've never paid you back. You have to, we have to --"

"Shh, honeypie," Angel had said, and smiled. "You don't owe me a thing."

And Mark thinks that if there's anyone who'd understand this, it would be Angel, Angel who always gave himself away, straight past the skin and bone to the very core of himself -- Angel who never expected anything in return. Mark thinks that Angel would understand, and he keeps it in mind for the day he tells Roger the truth.

That will make it easier for Roger to leave him behind.

~

It was late. Really, really late. The roof hadn't caved in -- yet -- and Mark and Roger were finally starting to get tired, sore and quiet after their almost-argument. Before they fell asleep, Mark propped himself on one elbow and rested a hand on Roger's side. "Hey," he said softly, heart pounding. "One last thing."

Roger leaned back slightly to show he was listening, and Mark's hand fell quite naturally around his waist. Roger simply lifted an arm and trapped Mark's against his side. "You're freezing," he mumbled, face mashed into the pillow. "Yeah?"

Mark was shivering, but he didn't think it was from the cold. He laid back down anyway, burrowing in the blankets, and let out a slow, shaky breath. "You can ask me for anything," he blurted. "You know that, right?"

With so little space between them, Mark felt Roger's breath hitch. It hurt. Roger's hand came up, fingers threading through his, tightening and pressing their clenched fists to his chest. "I know," he grated, and beneath the thin cotton, Mark could feel the beat of his heart, too fast.

Roger fell asleep soon after. Mark knew, because his grip slackened, but not enough for Mark to pull away.

 _I'm going to tell you,_ Mark promised silently. _I'm going to tell you all about it, I really am. When we're not so pressed for time. When it's a little bit easier, I'm going to do it, I'm just going to tell you. I will. I swear._

Any minute now.

 


End file.
